


The Bear's Lady

by raiyana



Series: The Skin-Changer Chronicles [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Tumblr: ImaginexHobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: When Ullrae wakes to find her barn filled with Dwarrow...&How to discipline your children, Beorn style.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think I've managed to correct the wonky tenses now!  
> Also added a bit more to it.

“Come on, get inside!” Someone cries, disturbing your slumber. Something smashes against the door, startling you awake. Thinking that it might just be your husband, you turn over, pulling the blanket back up to your chin. More thuds make you frown. Beorn wouldn’t come to the house in bear form, unless things were more dire than you could imagine. “Open the door!” You frown, hearing the same voice speaking. It is not Beorn.

“Quickly!” Another voice roars. Swinging your feet over the side of the bed, you grab your large shawl, wrapping it around your shoulders. The night is not cold, and usually you sleep naked, more than warm enough with Beorn in the bed with you, but tonight he had smelled Orcs on the wind and gone hunting, keeping the riverlands safe from the black scourge. You keep to the shadows as you creep closer to the door, hiding when it suddenly bursts open, a pack of… _Dwarrow?..._ entering your home. You gasp out your surprise, but the strangers are understandably more concerned with the massive bear trying to follow them. You wince when they smash the heavy oak door in Beorn’s face, releasing a soft growl.

“Come on, lads!” The intruders don’t hear you, managing to shut the door at last. When the heavy bolt falls into place, they cheer, though it’s tired and wan. You keep to your hiding spot, staying quiet for now. They’re all armed, and there’s only one of you. Realistically, you could kill half of them before they realized you were even present, but – aside from the door – they do not seem hostile.

“What _is_ that?” One of the younger-looking ones ask.

“That...is our host.” The tall one in grey robes reply. You grin silently, watching the strangers’ reactions. Theyv mostly gape in incredulity, and you feel wry amusement at the loud gasp from the corner. “His name is Beorn, and he is a skin-changer.” It’s obvious that the tall fellow knows what that means, though none of the rest seem to understand. You snicker. “Sometimes he’s a huge black bear; sometimes he’s a great strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with.” You want to laugh at that assessment; the bear is certainly reasonable – for a bear. “However, he is not over-fond of dwarrow.” _That_ makes the Dwarrow look warily at each other. The young one who spoke peeks out through the crack you usually use to watch for Beorn’s return when you remain in the house.

“He’s leaving!” he cries, relieved. You frown. The Orcs must be closer than you both assumed, if Beorn would risk leaving you alone with a pack of armed intruders. On the other hand, you’re hardly helpless, and he won’t stray too far before he knows you’re safe.

“Come away from there!” An older one nags, pulling the young one away. “It’s not natural, none of it. It’s obvious: he’s under some dark spell.” You scowl. _Dark spell, ha!_

“Don’t be a fool; he’s under no enchantment but his own.” The tall one says, which proves that he at least knows _some_ things. “Alright now, get some sleep, all of you. You’ll be safe here tonight.” You scoff at that claim.

“Is it common where you are from to break into someone’s house and make yourself free of the space… and the food?” you ask quietly, stepping out from the shadows. You stand a head taller than the tall grey one. They all blanch, staring at you. The fat one, who has apparently found one of the rolls you left out for the mice, drops it with a squeak of fright. You smirk lightly. “Furthermore, assaulting your host seems impolite at best, perilous at worst.”

No one answers.

You smile, but it is not friendly.

“My lady-” the old Man-who-was-not-Man to your senses began, but you interrupt him with a light laugh, taking a step down to the main room.

“ _Your_ lady?” you laugh, walking lightly through the group of Dwarrow who are still staring at you. “I should think not. You may call me Ullrae.” Taking a look outside, your sharp eyes catch sight of Beorn once more, ambling towards the house in bear form. At the edge of the forest, he shudders and shifts, until he is standing tall in his human skin again. He looks toward the house, checking on you. You block the light thrice, a simple signal, and the man you love nods once.

You smile.

“Lady Ullrae,” the grey-robed one tried again, but you don’t much care what story he’d try to spin. It doesn't matter, after all, you won't abandon anyone to the foe who is hunting them. A soft growl escapes your throat, angry and a touch fearful. You know the minds of orcs, no good can come from the boldness they have shown in coming this close to your territory.

“You may sleep in the barn tonight,” you decide, interrupting him again. His scowl disappears as soon as you turn to face him, however, replaced by a carefully friendly façade that you don’t trust one bit. “Tomorrow… tomorrow my husband is home. You can plead your case then.”

“Thank you, Mistress Ullrae,” one of the dark-haired Dwarrow say. You study his face. It seems oddly familiar.

“You are of Thrór’s line…” you whisper, staring at the dwarf. “The one they call Oakenshield.” He nods, probably knowing that he’d never be able to deny it; the resemblance is too strong, even with his short beard and still-dark hair. "You are known to us." Quietly, the rest of them introduce themselves, amusing you with all their declarations of being at your service.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Beorn wakes you with a kiss, studying your drowsy form to assure himself that you are well. You smile lazily at him, lifting the blanket in invitation before you suddenly remember your ‘guests’. Sitting up straight, you let him pull you into his arms and off the bed.

“There are Dwarrow in our home, beloved,” you whisper into his shoulder, feeling him tense at the words. You knew he’d be unhappy with that, but he wouldn’t have expected you to turn them away with Orcs roaming the land. Even the bear would not expect that, which was why he herded them to the house, you know. "Did you kill the Orcs?"

“Yes. I can smell them,” Beorn growled, "and I could not find all of them; some fled into the forest and back to the Mountains." Kissing you with a gentleness at odds with his large stature and simmering anger, he releases you to get dressed, a simple tunic pulled over your head and your hair gathered in a quick braid.

“Breakfast, Beorn?” you ask, as you do most mornings, returning the kiss and earning yourself a small smile.

“I’ll get some wood for the fire.”

 

You walk into your kitchen, your sensitive ears picking up the sound of the waking Dwarrow from the barn. The rhythmic sound of wood being chopped suddenly halts. You grin as you listen to the grey one trying to explain to your intimidating husband why there are Dwarrow in the house. You shake your head at his attempts at subterfuge. As if you couldn’t smell that there were more people here than he and the little one. Did he truly believe that you would not have told your husband about your guests?

When they’ve all been introduced, Beorn herds them into the kitchen. The Dwarrow resume the staring, and you suppose the two of you do not look much like the Men they are used to. You are taller, and the animal-skin always bleeds over in the human skin, making skinchangers look far wilder than Men. Greeting Beorn with a happy growl, you press your face affectionately into his shoulder.

“Hungry?” you ask, gesturing them towards the table, amused that they mostly resemble a row of heads along the top of it. Silently, you busy yourself with making a large pot of porridge, while Beorn fetches the pitcher of milk, pouring some into your pot and serving large mugs to the Dwarrow seated at the table. It seems they have learned the lesson of staying silent until spoken to last night as they all keep quiet.

“So, you are the one they call Oakenshield.” Beorn states, pouring a mug larger than the dwarf’s head for the young blonde one. You hide a smile. Always looking out for young’uns; that’s your Beorn. “Tell me, why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?” Are they simply unlucky or is there a darker purpose? Azog himself would never leave the stronghold without a very good reason, and you wonder where Bolg is.

“You know of Azog?” Oakenshield replies, seemingly confused. You snarl at the name. The young Dwarf squeaks, obviously sensitive to the sheer hatred in the sound, the anger in your golden eyes. “How?” Oakenshield continues, oblivious. Beorn frowns, sharing a dark look with you. You nod. Perhaps he doesn’t know what he’s asking.

“My people were the first to live in the mountains, before the Orcs came down from the north.” They had come so quickly, an avalanche of evil and weaponry; many of the small hidden villages were gone before the chieftains had even realized that you were under attack. “The Defiler killed most of my family… but some he enslaved.” The manacle still encircling his wrist clinks against the pitcher. Once, you had worn similar adornment, cold iron wrapped around your ankle as you danced for scraps of food. Yours had been gone for many years, but Beorn would keep his until he had avenged his family. “Not for work, you understand, but for sport.” His anger burned in his eyes, but you knew it wasn’t directed at you even if his eyes were, simply reliving the state of you when you’d stumbled on his home so many years ago, barely alive. “Caging skin-changers and torturing them seemed to amuse him.” You have told him much over the years, much of what you saw in those dark years, but you know the two people who are first in his mind when he speaks those words, feeling your own sorrow as you think of Berveig and the little one. You reach for him, offering and needing physical reassurance that you are here – together – at home, in peace.

“There are others like you?” the smallest one asks; you don’t think he is a Dwarf, he smells more flowery, even beneath the dirt and the overlying metallic scents of Dwarrow. You shake your head. Once, you had been the fourth daughter of the chief of the Lynx-Clan… now, you were alone, your siblings long-dead, and you would have been too, if not for Beorn.

“Once, there were many.” Beorn says. Moving behind you, he squeezes your hand gently. You give him a pale smile, grateful for the comfort.

“And now?” the little one asks, unaware of how the simple question tore at both your hearts.

“Now, there is only one.” Beorn states, looking at you and closing the topic with finality. None of your guests dare gainsay him, aware of the animal surging closely beneath his skin. You are better at hiding your agitation, but you leave your hand in his, returning the comfort. Breakfast commences in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

“A darkness lies upon that forest.” You stand behind Beorn as he stares at the old Man who is a wizard. “Fell things creep beneath those trees. There is an alliance between the Orcs of Moria and the Necromancer in Dol Guldur. I would not venture there except in great need.” You snarl softly. Once, you traded with the Elven village that moved around the Old Dwarven Road, but it was many years since anyone had dared to live that far south.

“We will take the Elven Road. That path is still safe.” Gandalf says confidently. You chuckle, squeezing Beorn's shoulder. Beorn’s amusement is just as clear, his agreement with you absolute. 

“Safe?” he scoffs. “The Wood-Elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They’re less wise and more dangerous.” You have some dealings with them, but you see them rarely, happy to keep to their lands as you keep to yours. “But it matters not.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asks, frowning. You wonder at his naivety.

“These lands are crawling with Orcs. Their numbers are growing, and you are on foot.” Your smile is grim as you continue, “You will never reach the forest alive.” The Dwarf looks surprisingly shocked, as if he isn’t aware of the forces Azog commands, as though only a few were hunting him. Beorn stands tall, one of the three white mice crawling onto his large hand, scampering through his fingers.

“I don’t like dwarves.” You almost snort at the massive understatement. You feel his amusement as he looks at you. “They’re greedy and blind, blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own.” Thorin isn’t cowed, however, and you already know what Beorn will say as he hands the small creature to you, perching it on your shoulder. There was no question of letting them go off to be slaughtered on your doorstep, after all, and Beorn is Scildere to his core. You smile at him, showing off your sharp teeth. You will both be hunting tonight. “But Orcs I hate more. What do you need?” 


	2. The Bear's Offspring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will eventually get around to changing this to a present tense story like the rest of the series lol

She looked down. The ground was very far away. Even with her other skin, she wasn't sure she could make the leap. Mama would have managed easily, she knew, but she was _big_. And Mama wasn’t here. She looked over the edge again. _It wasn’t fair. Grimbeorn did it too, why was she the one being punished?_ From outside the house came the sound of wood being chopped, interspersed with growls of displeasure. _Oh, seems Grimbeorn **was** being punished,_ she thought, suddenly a little more satisfied by recent events. Scowling at Papa’s back didn’t move him to help you.

“Papa!” she cried, but he pretended not to hear, stirring the soup they were having for dinner. He hummed.

 

* * *

 

“Why is my wee kitten stuck on the cupboard?” Ullrae wondered when she walked into the house. Above her head, a plaintive meow sounded.

“Because she and Grim were harrying the sheep.” Beorn sighed, turning to his wife of many years with an exasperated look. Ullrae managed not to giggle only because she hid the sound in his mouth. The small lynx on top of the cupboard meowed again.

“But why the cupboard, my love?” Ullrae asked, when Beorn let her go, keeping her slender arms wrapped around his neck, scratching it lightly with her long nails.

“Well, I tried to make her help with chores, but she wanted to run around like a little wild thing I once knew,” he pinched her buttock, making his wife laugh throatily and kiss his cheek, “so I put her there so she wouldn’t knock over the soup and scald herself. Floka is watching her,” he revealed, motioning towards the dog who was staring attentively at the small lynx cub. The plaintive mewling returned, louder. Beorn’s eyes glittered. Ullrae’s golden irises revealed her mirth, as she bestowed another kiss on her sorely-tested husband.

“I assume that’s also the reason our son is cursing at the woodchopping block?” Ullrae laughed. Beorn nodded.

“I told him to keep at it till supper was ready.” Beorn revealed. “Which is as long as miss kitty is going to be perched on that cupboard, no matter how loudly she cries for me to pick her up,” he muttered in the direction of the cupboard. The lynx cub hissed. Ullrae laughed loudly, bending to check on the bread Beorn had in the small oven. His large palm came down, cupping and gently stroking her backside. The Lynx-Walker purred.

“You heard your father, little one,” she murmured. “I’ll not come save you from a punishment you’ve earned. No, young lady, those fake cries won’t sway me,” she added, throwing an amused look at her daughter.

“Sometimes, I wonder why we decided to have another after Grim,” Beorn grumbled, though Ullrae knew he didn’t mean it. The small lynx cried out. “And then I remember it’s because we knew we’d love another little troublemaker,” he added, when Ullrae glared up at him. The cub fell silent once more, uttering an affronted huff in her father’s direction.

“You know, we should try again, Beorn,” Ullrae mused. The Bear-Walker stiffened, staring at her. “What? I’m a Lynx, Beorn, my mother had six daughters and three sons!” Ullrae exclaimed. She had told him before that she wanted a large family, but he had been happy even to be granted two cubs, not considering that Ullrae's kind usually had litters of two or three at a time. 

“You would give me that?” he asked, still staring poleaxed at his wife. To have one child like him had been more than he had ever hoped for… and Ullrae was willing to do it again?! Beorn felt a little faint, remembering her screams as she labored to bring their current two troublemakers into the world. He did not understand how women chose to go through that even once – especially human women, who didn’t have the benefit of the accelerated healing of the Walkers, he thought, with a stab of pain for Álmbera – but to willingly do it over and over again, for the sake of _his_ children? It was a gift from the gods, he was sure.

“Beorn?” she frowned, rising to her full height and cupping his cheek, kissing him softly. Catching her in a tight hug, he kissed her deeply, trying to convey all that he was feeling. Ullrae smiled, pressing against him with a pleased purr, which made him realise how obvious his approval of the idea was. “We’ll talk more later, but for now, I think the soup’s ready. I’ll go fetch Grim, you get Fjela off the cupboard, yeah?” Beorn simply nodded, turning to face the cupboard with a racing heart as he thought about Ullrae’s proposal. On top of the cupboard sat a little girl, hair tawny hair sticking up in tufts like his own crest, but her eyes as golden as Ullrae’s. She smiled, reaching for him, her sharp teeth still mostly for show.

“Papa!” she called, throwing herself into the air in perfect certainty that Beorn would catch her, keep her safe. He smiled.

“My Fjela,” he rumbled, as she snuggled into his chest. The little girl yawned, making her father chuckle. She’d tired herself out shifting today, he knew, but she ought to eat before he let her sleep for the night.

 

“If we’re having a new cub, can it be a bear this time?” Grim asked, when Ullrae finished ladling out their soup.

“That I cannot promise,” she said, shifting Fjela from Beorn’s lap to her own to let the cub suckle. Grimbeorn looked imploringly at his father, who felt the decision of having another cub had already been made – even in his mind – the very moment Ullrae had proposed the idea.

“Well, I’ll try?” he asked, laughing. “There are no guarantees, Grim. You could have been a lynx just as easily.” Beorn winked at his son, who groaned.

“It’s not fair. She cheats when we race!” he accused, making his parents chuckle. Beorn ruffled his hair, making the boy scowl.

“But you are stronger, my son, the blood of Scildere runs in you,” Ullrae murmured, stroking the small cub’s fur and smiling across the table. Grimbeorn preened at her praise. “And when your papa and I are gone, you will protect your siblings and keep them safe, just like Beorn has protected me and kept me safe. No matter how fast a lynx may run, there are those who will be able to catch her.” Beorn looked at his wife, knowing they were thinking of the same thing. He leaned in, kissing her temple.

“It has been my greatest joy that I found you,” he whispered. Ullrae smiled.

“And mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now has a prequel : [The Walkers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11716668)


End file.
